


Forked Road

by Daiako (Achrya)



Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fate/ Fusion, Camp Nanowrimo, Crossover, Explicit Sexual Content, Gonna Use the Holy Grail to save Noct/The world, M/M, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Quests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-09 16:31:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19479736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achrya/pseuds/Daiako
Summary: Regis had tried many things to save his son from his destiny but may have finally found a real alternative to Noctis sacrificing himself. A Holy Grail War has started, and he intends for Noctis and his friends to find and lay claim to it, and use the wish to defy the prophecy and the astrals.But, as with most things, that's a bit easier said than done.Or: Poly roadtrip, with extra poly.





	1. Rightwise King

**Author's Note:**

> My camp nano fic, a fateverse crossover with all sorts of rule bending and nonsense and porn, probably. Lots of partner swapping because I can.

Noctis looked around the long, wide room anxiously before glancing back at his father in silent question. It was a rare thing for his dad to call him to the Citadel to speak to him out of the blue like this, normally his father’s schedule was managed down to the minute and if Noct wasn’t injured or seriously in trouble he had to be worked in like the rest of the world. It was even more surprising that he’d arrived, escorted by an oddly serious looking Nyx, to find Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto already in his father’s office and waiting for him, since none of them had told him anything was going on. 

His attempt to ask what was happening had been stalled with a simple raised hand and an order to follow from his father. Down corridors, rarely used stairs, to an elevator at the back of an otherwise empty, dusty hallway, down far past what had to be street level had set them into what looked like an old subway tunnel, walking along a metal path raised a few inches above a shallow stream of brackish water. The only light had come from old, flickering bulbs that came to life as they came close then went off behind them. There had been a few turns that Noctis wasn’t sure he’d be able to remember if he had to make his way alone and then, finally, they’d stopped outside of a large vault door, flanked by Cor, Clarus, Libertus, and Crowe. 

Noctis could usually count on at least Libertus having a quick grin for him when they passed in the hallways but today the Glaive was just as quiet and stoic as his teammates. Noctis’ skin prickled with unease. 

A wave of his father hand, accompanied by the burnt ozone scent of magic, had seen the door swinging open for them and lead them to...the room. When they filed inside floodlights came to life with dull clicks, lighting up the large space. It stretched far on all sides, had no windows or other doors that Noctis could see, and was full of rows and rows of glass cases raised on pedestals. They all seemed to have bottoms lined with velvet but there the obvious similarities ended; some had closed ornate chests inside, others items propped up by stands, and others still suspended in midair somehow. The cases were arranged to make it so they could each be observed on all sides and to make wide walkways between them all. 

Regis stepped deeper into the room then, as the vault door shut with a resounding boom that sent a wave of muted panic up Noctis’ spine, turned to face them. “This is the Vault of Lucian Kings. Since the very first of our line, and perhaps before that, we have collected artifacts and kept them carefully preserved. A great many are from the Lucian Kings, Shields, and Kingsglaive, our people’s heroes, and others from heroes of other ages and worlds. There is a lot of power, and magic, stored in this room and in these artifacts, power best left far from the hands of those who could abuse it.” 

Regis smiled wryly, eyes scanning the small group. “But today I’m going to ask you to take items from here, in hopes doing so will save our country. And my son.” 

Noctis’ face heated and he could feel all eyes on him for a moment, even though he refused to look away from him his father. For a moment the man looked less the stately king and more...tired, eyes dimming and back curving just a little as his shoulders slumped. It was just for an instant, there and then gone as he straightened back up and put a resolute face on, but the moment was already burned into Noctis’ mine. 

“Is Noctis is danger?” Gladio asked; Noctis could hear the frown in his voice. 

Regis seemed to hesitate, eyes zeroing in on Noct for a moment, before he nodded slowly. “Of a sort. You are all aware of the prophecy of the King of Light, who will save the world when darkness takes over. I have been told, by the crystal and the spirits of the kings within, that Noctis will be the King of Light.” 

Noctis didn’t squirm or, he hoped, let his discomfort show. He knew this, remembered Lunafreya telling him that he was the True King when he was in Tenebrae, but he also had no idea what that was supposed to mean. It was way too vague for him and, besides that, it was impossible to think of himself as anything but what he was: Noct, who worked at a sushi restaurant and played video games and happened to be a prince but was (according to Prompto anyway) actually really normal and boring. 

Not some powerful ‘True King’ who was going to save the world from anything. 

“This can only come to pass if the King of Light gives his life. Noctis will have to die.” Regis said, hand already up in a silent demand for silence; Gladio and Ignis’ voices rose up but cut off just as fast. Noctis stared at his father, acutely aware of the pounding of his own heart and twisting in his stomach. Die? He would have to- 

“I am sorry, Noct. I have known this most of your life and kept it from you, so you could have a life without your own death hanging over your head. I don’t know if this was the right thing to do, and I hope you’ll forgive me for it.” Regis turned to face him fully and Noctis could feel the sadness and regret radiating from the man he’d always thought so distant and detached, so above everything. He didn’t know what to say. “I have tried to bargain with the Astrals and the crystal, and offered my own life in your place-” 

“Dad!” Was that what this was? His father was sacrificing himself for him and what, doing some kind of weird gift giving thing to get ready for it? 

He wasn’t going to let that happen! He wouldn’t!

“And have been refused. I even considered a truce from the Empire, sealed with an engagement between yourself and Lady Lunafreya, in hopes it may end the war and save you from your destiny. I fear that would have been unlikely to work but...no matter, because another solution has presented itself. There is an item of great power that has, for thousands of years, lain passive and gaining strength, and signs indicate it’s about to awaken. This item is said to be able to grant the person who lays claim to it a single wish, for anything they desire.”

“For example, the end of the darkness that is to threaten Eos, without the sacrifice of the True King.” 

Noctis blinked. Opened his mouth then shut it, unable to find words for the dozens, hundreds, of thoughts racing through his head. He didn’t know what to focus on, where to start. Engagement to Lunafreya? Truce with the Imperials? Wishes? He was supposed to die (It was his Destiny to die) but maybe he didn’t? His father had been hiding this his whole life? Did anyone else know? Was everyone just, just smiling at him day after day while knowing the truth? 

Everything was going by too fast, without a chance to take any of it any or begin to process.

“What do we need to do?” Ignis, at Noctis’ side as he always was, asked. His voice was steady, determined, and when Noct looked at him from the corner of his eye he saw brows furrowed in thought and something dark lurking in murky green depths. 

That. That was not a happy Ignis face. 

As if sensing his attention Ignis’s expression smoothed out and a single eyebrow quirked up. A hand, wide and warm, brushed against Noctis’ before pulling away. The knot of tension in his chest loosened some. 

“You’ll have to fight.” Regis said. “The item is the Holy Grail, and when it reveals itself a ‘Holy Grail War’ will start. Normally selected individuals will summon spirits to fight for them, and fight themselves if they wish, and take out the other competitors until only one pair is left. In this case, however, the grail has been activated unnaturally and some allowances in the system are being made, and I hope to exploit them.”

“Allowances, Your Majesty?” 

Regis smiled faintly. “Nothing for you to concern yourself with Ignis. What matters is that you will all be able to summon a Heroic Spirit, and work together towards the Grail in opposition of those who would use it for other means. That is why I’ve brought you here, to the Vault. There are over a hundred artifacts here that can act as catalysts to summon spirits who will act as familiars and obey you during the upcoming battles.” 

“While none of you are mages, I believe your connection to the crystal through myself and Noctis will be enough to ensure there is no spirit here you’ll be unable to call and control, for the most part. I’m also sure something here will call to each of you, so walk through and trust whatever pull you feel.” 

“Noctis, Prompto, stay here, with me.” His father added. 

Everyone was slow to move at first but when Regis has nothing else to say and merely watched them all expectantly the group fanned out, Ignis and Gladio going left while Nyx, Crowe, and Libertus went to the right. Noctis could hear them talking, voices low whispers that bounced off the stone walls into wordless noise. 

“Cor?” 

The Marshall shook his head. “I think I have something that will suit.” 

Regis looked faintly surprised but nodded his acceptance before turning his attention to Prompto. Who looked about five seconds from hyperventilating and passing, which was par for the course anytime he was in the same room as Noctis’ father. He wasn’t sure, but he was pretty sure his dad thought Prompto’s tendency to go cherry red and stumble all over himself was amusing. 

“Prompto, I owe you an apology. I had you called because I’m sure you’ll be at Noct’s side in whatever comes next,” Prompto stood up straighter and nodded so emphatically Noctis was half afraid his head was going to come off. Regis’ eyes lost some of the shadow that had fallen over them. “However I don’t think you’ll be able to summon a spirit.” 

Prompto’s face froze. “I- you don’t- I mean! Your Majesty, I want to help! That’s why I became a Crownsguard, to help Noct! ...the prince. His...Highness? I-” 

Regis’ lips twitched briefly before his face resumed it’s serious expression. “I’m aware, and I’m grateful. You’re invaluable to Noctis.” 

Noctis looked away, cheeks warming again. Invaluable was...a lot, but yeah, it was something like that. Ignis and Gladio were important to him, more important than anyone save his father, but Prompto was too, in the same but different ways all at the same time. Prompto was something outside of his life as Prince, not just an assigned companion and protector, but someone who wanted to be around him (not that Ignis and Gladio didn’t want to but still it was their sworn duty) and-

It was just. Different. 

“I’m afraid the summoning process would do you serious harm. You haven’t been a Crownsguard long and your body is less familiar with magic; there is a very real possibility that harnessing and holding onto the energy for this spell could burn you out, for lack of a better term, and that would likely be fatal.” Regis explained, voice dropping to a low, sympathetic tone. “In this I think you would best serve Noctis by staying alive and supporting him in your usual manner.” 

Noctis was good at reading Prompto and he positive that if it was anyone but his father saying this Prompto would argue. His jaw was set stubbornly, his shoulders raised and stiff, and his eyes narrowed; it was the face he wore before demanding a rematch in a game or getting ready to cram for a test or before telling off a nosy reporter who’d gotten too close. It came before explosions or moments of total focus. 

But he just nodded, mumbling that he was going to catch up with Gladio and Ignis, and walked away stiffy. Noctis watched him go, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. It was on the tip of his tongue to defend Prompto and insist he could handle whatever this spell was, to demand he be given a chance, but the word ‘Fatal’ echoed in his brain. 

“Noctis, this catalyst is for you.” Regis was holding a palm sized wooden box in his hands when Noctis faced him again; where he’d been keeping that Noct could only guess. 

The wood was black, polished to a shine, and cool to the touch when he took it. There was a single latch in the center, Noctis pressed and the lid popped open to reveal a sliver of gleaming metal, jagged and broken on all sides. There were words engraved in fading gold: ‘ _ s rightwise king of _ ’. Noctis squinted at them, a feeling he couldn’t put a name to filling the pit of his stomach, then looked up at his father. Regis smiled, tight and drawn but somehow warm at the same time. 

“There’s an old story about a boy who pulled a sword from a stone, and became a king. He was a good man, noble and honest, a legendary hero and leader, who willingly took the weight of his country upon his shoulders and did his best to not falter under it, even when it meant losing his life.” Regis put a hand on Noctis’ shoulder and squeezed gently. “I think this spirit will serve you well.” 

His throat was too tight to speak so Noctis could only avert his burning eyes and nod. 

\---

Noctis squinted down at the ritual circle he’d drawn on his living room floor, compared it to the copied image his father had given him then, shrugging, reaching for the knife. He hissed as he drew it over a fingertip, the pain sharp but quickly fading, then squeezed to get a few drops to well up and drip down onto the dark wood, inside the chalk lines. 

Next came the ritual itself. They’d all been given the same lines, and told to modify as needed. Noctis had tried to get some clarification on what that meant but Ignis had tartly informed him that he would have to ‘feel it out’ himself, to ‘infuse himself’, into the rite. Which sounded a lot like ‘I won’t do your homework for your Noctis,’ in his opinion, but slightly more cryptic. As far back as Noct could remember Ignis had been interested in old spells and rites, something he found pretty boring and useless, but now that he had a chance to show off all that studying he didn’t want to? 

He just didn’t get it. 

Noctis lowered himself onto the ground and, with one last look at the ritual and the few things he’d scribbled on it on the ride home, decided to just go for it. 

_ “Let gold and steel be the essence. _

_ Let stone and the goddess Etro be the foundation. _

_ Let black be the color I pay tribute to. _

_ Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall. _

_ Let the four cardinal gates close. _

_ Let the three-bridged road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom rotate." _

_ Let it be filled. Again. Again. Again. Again. _

_ Let it be filled fivefold for every turn, simply breaking asunder with every filling. _

_ My destiny is your sword  _

_ In accordance with the laws of the Holy Grail, if you hear my call then answer!” _

As he spoke each line Noctis felt something building inside of him, hot and electric and almost the same of the magic he used but different. Deeper, older, putting more pressure onto him as it flared and twisted. Wind blew, through all the windows and doors were shut, whipping his hair around his head and the lights flickered. And then

Nothing. The feeling crested, bubbled, then went out like a switch had been flicked, like it hadn’t been there at all. The lights steadied and his hair fell back into a semblance of place. Noctis looked around, frowning. 

Had he messed it up? Maybe his changes had been bad? He should have run it past Ignis first, not gotten huffy about being told to figure it out himself. He sighed and pushed himself up, intending to get his phone and call his advisor when, all at once, the lights went out. The pressure came back, filled him up in a rush and then was yanked free with a painful twist that had him stumbling backwards. 

It wasn’t dark. 

In the center of the circle a bright golden column of light formed, stretching from floor to ceiling and inside a dark shape was taking form. It took a few breaths for it to solidify into the outline of a body, roughly Noct’s height, slim but broad at the shoulders, a hood over their bowed head, arms in front of their body. 

The golden glow faded, the lights came back on and Noctis was staring at a person, dressed in silver armor over what looked like a thick blue robe, clasping a sword. 

They lifted their head; bright green eyes peered out from behind a fringe of golden hair. “Master. You’ve called and I’ve answered. What is your command?” 

Noctis sat down on the floor, hard. “Shit.” 


	2. Sound and Fury

Gladio was no stranger to anger. He’d had something that was maybe an anger problem in his teen years, not nearly as far gone as he sometimes felt like they were. His temper had flared over just about anything and everything, but especially where Noctis was concerned. The prince hadn’t wanted to work out, train, or spar when he was supposed to, hadn’t wanted Gladio around to watch his back like Gladio was meant to, and had more than once told him they weren’t actually friends so Gladio could stop pretending to care. Noctis picked up a habit of ditching his guard detail around fifteen, around the same time Gladio picked up one for driving the soldiers he trained against into the mats as hard as he could, as often as he could. 

But it hadn’t just been Noct that was the issue, for all that he’d raged and snarled about the kid at the time. It had been lots of things (Pressure, inescapable pressure because he was next Shield, heir to his family’s name, had to be faster, stronger, more capable, had to be smarter, more aware, had to be better, had to accept an arranged engagement to a noble girl when he’d never so much as felt anything for a woman at all because there had to be heirs one day, had to dedicate himself to a bratty prince who didn’t want him around and word with a prissy would be advisor who frustrated him to no end) that had piled up on him until he’d felt like he was going to buckle beneath the weight. He’d felt weak and he’d felt confused and most of all he’d been angry. He’d put a lot of holes into walls, broken a lot of things, taken doors of their hinges, and did enough damage around the Citadel that no one would spar with him anymore unless ordered to do so. 

He’d left his name and hid his face while slinking around less nice parts of Insomnia and found people game to fight, or in need of an attitude adjustment, and did far more harm than a Shield ought to do. 

He’d gotten his shit together eventually, under his father and Cor’s every watchful eyes, mellowed out, found other outlets, learned to control and channel the anger that had spilled out of him like a cup filled too full. He still got angry, he was human and there was nothing for that, but it wasn’t like it used to be, and never could it not be fixed by a little quiet meditation or by kicking Noct’s ass in video games. 

But not, after years of not feeling like he was burning up around the edges and would explode if the wind blew the wrong way, he was there again. Seething directionlessly, so far from getting a grip on things it was almost laughable, so tense his body ached all over, vision dark around the edges and insides rioting; he didn’t think he’d ever been so fucking furious. And there was nothing to take it out on because he had something he needed to be doing, something that couldn’t wait for him to breathe deeply and let the world drop away until he’d found his center or for him to run himself to exhaustion. 

So he held onto it, grit his teeth and swallowed it as he drove Noctis and Prompto home, both so caught up in their own heads they might as well have been miles away. It sat, barely banked low in his gut, as he watched Iris clear out for the night (sleepover with a friend) and his mother pack up to stay with his father at the Citadel for the night (To give him space and time to himself), and trickled out a little as he drew harsh, heavy lines in chalk on the rough concrete of the garage floor. 

He set the artifact, a curved piece of wood with a weight and feel like metal, he’d taken from the king’s vault into the center of the circle with more care than he wanted then stepped back to add his blood to the ritual, the sting of pain as he cut into his palm doing little to distract him from how mad he was. 

Mad at everything and everyone, at the gods, and drowning in it. It dripped from his voice as he bit out the words of the ritual, seeped bitterly over his tongue and between his teeth. 

_ “Let silver and wood be the essence. _

_ Let stone and the goddess Etro be the foundation. _

_ Let black be the color I pay tribute to. _

_ Let rise a shield against the wind that shall fall.” _

But what good was a shield for a king meant to die, really? All his life he’d been told to keep Noctis safe, to be not just another guard but *shield*, there to protect him from all threats, to stand solid against anything that may come, to be willing to lay down his life without thought if it would keep Noctis alive, to share any burdens that could come. He’d gone around and around with that so many times growing up, been proud and resentful in equal turns, and finally came to accept his role and all it meant. His life wasn’t his own, it was an extension of Noctis’, his path wasn’t his own, it was one he’d walk ahead of Noctis; that was what it meant to be an Amicitia. 

Except none of that was supposed to be true for him. He was supposed to protect his prince, his oldest friend who was so close he was more than a brother, so he could sacrifice himself later. He was meant to stand aside and let Noctis die, alone, without fighting for him, without doing a single thing to prevent it. 

How was he supposed to accept that? (He wouldn’t) How was it not failure? What could he do after that, if it came to pass? 

_ “Let the four cardinal gates close. _

_ Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom rotate. _

_ Let it be filled. Again. Again. Again. Again. _

_ Let it be filled fivefold for every turn, simply breaking asunder with every filling.”  _

That his father had known this all along, had to know because there were no secrets between Regis and Clarus, burned Gladio in a way he hadn’t known was possible. He’d left the Citadel without a word for the man, sure that if he opened his mouth something he’d never be able to take back would come out. 

Would his dad be able to stand aside and let Regis die, Gladio wondered. What life was there for a Shield without their King? Did they just start over, like everything they’d done to that point didn’t mean anything? Gladio didn’t think it had ever happened, they always went before their kings, barring illness or old age, that was just...how it was meant to be.

The idea of losing Noctis was a concept so alien he still couldn’t quite grasp it. He’d ever given it any thought and now he was being told it was a likely inevitably, decreed by the Astrals, written in the stars, known for thousands of years, that whatever was supposed to come was something he couldn’t do anything about, except hope the king’s admitted ‘last resort’ worked out for them. 

In the end he was going to be useless. 

And he was angry. It filled his chest, his stomach, pushed under his skin and sang through his blood, warmed him inside and out. It was a heavy pressure that just grew with each passing moment, made him feel too large, unstead, in his body. He tasted ashes on his tongue and felt burning behind his eyes. 

_ “My desire creates your body  _

_ My loyalty is your weapon  _

_ In accordance with the laws of the Holy Grail, if you hear my call then answer!” _

The back of his hand burned, red light burst through his skin like flames, and pain slammed into him with all the force of a blow from an angry Cor and then some. It staggered him, sent him staggering back with a bitten off shout; he clutched his burning hand to his chest and watched lines press up through his skin to form an image. A single outspread wing, dark red and surrounded by raw, angry skin, covered the back of his hand from the bottom knuckle of his thumb to his pinky. 

“You called to me and I’ve answered.” Gladio looked up, eyes widening slightly. “What would you have me do, Master?” 

On one knee, head bowed, was a person, seemingly silently materialized from thin air in the few seconds Gladio had been distracted. They, he, was dressed in heavy looking black armor from shoulder to toe, with deep purple vestments draped over, long enough to pool on the ground beneath him. A sword belt with two scabbards hanging from it was strapped around his waist, only the ornate hilts of the weapons showing. The man was moonlight pale, a stark contrast from his armor, with long nearly colorless hair tumbled in thick waves that nearly hit the floor, falling over his face in a way that completely obscured the pale gold of one eye. 

Crouched though he was Gladio could tell he wasn’t a big man, on the slim side and probably shorter than Noct and Prompto but all the same there was something about him, power that rippled the air much in the way a heat mirage did, a presence that Gladio could feel pricking his skin, that said very clearly that he wasn’t to be taken lightly. 

Gladio straightened up and, still tingling hand dropping to his side, stepped closer to the man he had, apparently, managed to summon. The one who was going to help him save Noctis, or die trying. 

“...I thought you’d be bigger.” 

The man looked up at him through the fringe of his hair and dark lashes, expression perfectly neutral as his gaze swept up, down, up over Gladio. He shrugged. “I’m big in the ways that matter most.” 

Gladio’s eyebrows jumped up. Had the ancient spirit he just summoned through time and space, the powerful hero worthy of having something of his kept by Lucian kings in a locked fault for centuries, just made a dick joke? 

“You got a name?” 

The man rose to his feet with a smirk and, as Gladio had suspected, he barely came to his shoulders at his full height. “I’m Galahad, son of Elaine, a Shielder, andKnight of the Round Table. Which you seem to have a piece of.” He toed the hunk of wood with his toe, something like humor on his face. 

Gladio frowned; Round Table. There was something to that, something almost familiar but he couldn’t get a hold of the wisp of thought the words brought. Instead he focused on what was happening before him, filing it away to look into later. “A table? That’s the power artifact that summoned you.” 

Seemed more like something Ignis should have picked up than him. 

“Yes, and no.” Galahad looked back up at him, thoughtful for a moment then he was smiling again. He stepped back, putting a bit more space between them then thrust his out, palm vertical and facing Gladio. A shimmer of blue light surrounded his hand, spread out, took shape; it all happened near instantly, one moment there was nothing there and the next there was a huge shield, taller than Galahad, cross shaped with a wide circle dome behind it. “It’s a fragment of this, my shield and greatest weapon.” 

There were a lot of reactions Gladio could have had to that, and most of them would have been far more appropriate than the bark of laughter he let out. The shield faded in the same light show that had formed it, leaving only an offended looking Galahad behind. Gladio wanted to smother the laughter, well aware that it was too high pitched and strange to be natural, but it was impossible. A shield, a *shielder*, was what he’d summoned and that was both appropriate and painful, a raw gaping wound in his chest that made it hard to draw breath past his laughter. 

His phone sang and he the urge to laugh dried up as he fished it out of his pocket. Prompto’s name and smiling face blinked up at him. 

Strange; Prompto rarely called him directly, leaving message relaying to Noctis. They were all like that, orbiting around the prince, friends but not exactly the type to hang out without Noct around or call each other up without some pressing need.

If he was being honest he hadn’t expected to hear or see much of Prompto for a few days, if not longer. The blond had been visibly upset about being excluded from what was happening, and hadn’t spoken a word to anyone except to tell Noctis to be careful before running up into the apartment he and his parents shared. Gladio was sympathetic, he would have lost it if Regis had forbidden him from playing a part in saving Noctis, but figured the kid would want to be alone for a while before coming back as cheerful and stubbornly determined to do whatever he could as ever. 

When he answered and switched the phone to speaker the sound of stilted, heavy breathing filled the garage. Galahad’s head tilted to the side and golden eyes narrowed. 

“Prom?” Gladio stared hard at the numbers ticking up, waiting as uneasy slithered into his stomach. Two seconds, four, six, with just that rasping panting, uneven and thick. “Prompto!” 

“Hey, Big Guy.” Prompto’s voice was reedy and shaking. “So, bad news and- ah- don’t tell Noct or Iggy but. I think I fucked up.” 

“Fucked what up? Where are you?” Gladio reached reflexively for his pocket, felt the weight of his keys, and was turning to leave the garage all without realizing he was doing it. There was a shuffling sound, thumps, and a wet hacking cough. “Prompto!”

“Oh?” A voice that wasn’t Prompto, deeper, smoother, resigned. “What’s this? Someone playing with things they shouldn’t? Have I been drawn by another unusual little Master?” 

The line went dead with that; Gladio’s stomach dropped. He was thumbing the screen to call back as he settled into his SUV and started the vehicle. 

The drone of it ringing then clicking over Prompto’s voicemail message echoed hollowly. 

Prompto lived on near the opposite side of the city, in the older district filled with older, shorter buildings where a lot of refugees and immigrants lived. Gladio had never had much cause to come that way before meeting Prompto but now he knew the surrounding area as well as he did the neighborhood around Noct’s penthouse or his own home. He could have gotten there with his eyes closed, and in great time even when he wasn’t breaking the speed limit ad blowing through the occasionally yellow light at a speed his father wouldn’t approve of. 

He was probably going to hear about it later. 

He thought about calling Noctis or Ignis or, hell, any of Noct’s guard. They were all fond enough of Prompto these days, but  _ “Don’t tell Noct or Iggy,” _ stayed his hand. It was stupid and he knew that, if Prompto was hurt then he needed someone there, to help, and they could worry about keeping secrets for whatever reason later. But, all the same, Prompto had called him, not them, had specifically asked him not to tell, and that was...he felt... 

He would see what was going on, make sure Prompto was okay, and then he’d go from there. 

He repeated that to himself the entire tense drive and while taking the stairs up to Prompto’s third floor apartment two at a time, until he was outside of the blond’s door. He knocked, hard but there was no sound from inside. No voices, no movement, not even the hum of the radio or tv; he would almost think no one was home but when he looked down he saw light under the frame. He hesitated for only a heartbeat, looking down the dimly lit hall to make sure no one was around or peeking out from their homes, and threw himself against the door. It gave way like it was made of so much paper, splintering as it tore away from the frame and fell inside. He stumbled in, not having expected it to be quite that easy, but straightened up quickly. 

Just in time to see a glint of light flying his way and-

There was a flash of light, a hand pushed Gladio back, hard, into the hall and a metallic ringing as the projectile hit Galahad’s shield and fell to the ground, harmless. Gladio got a brief glimpse of an arrow, a long spiraled thing with a wicked looking head, roll across the wood of the floor before it dissolved into a spray of red light. 

"I'm taking your life into my hands. Consider the pack sealed." Galahad turned slightly to glare down at Gladio over his shoulder, though his body stayed rooted in spot, arm through the leather loop on the back of the shield’s dome, legs spread just so, entire weight into holding the massive thing steady and straight. He didn’t say it but Gladio got the distinct feeling the spirit was questioning his intelligence. 

“Another servant already?” The deep voice from the phone called out, though from where Gladio couldn’t tell from behind the shield. He sounded almost...bored. “My Master is in no state for a fight, so I’ll have to handle this much alone. Tell me, Knight, do you only hide behind a shield or is there more to you?” 

Galahad snorted; the hand not bracing the shield twitched down towards the swords on his belt. “Why don’t you come here and find out?” 

Laughter, short and rumbling, came just before a rush of what Gladio could only describe as pressure rolled out over his body in a wave. It pressed down on him with such intensity it left him dizzy and unable to stand for a moment; he had to thrust out a hand and prop himself up against the wall to fight against it. His ears popped and his teeth ached from the force. 

A whoosh of air and a streak of red; it coalesced into a form, tall and broad, filling the space in the hall between Gladio and Galahad. A swing of a thick arm, a flash of yellowing light from the overheads against a pitch black blade as it came down on Galahad. Gladio started to shout a warning, pulling his broadsword into existence, but it wasn’t needed. Galahad turned, shield vanishing, lifted his arm and stopped the blow without a noise of effort. The black blade cracked and dropped away, melting out of sight just as the arrow had. 

The man in red blurred, trailing more red light, twisted around to come back with a white bladed sword. Gladio pushed off of the wall, gripping his weapon-

“Wait!” Prompto shouted. “Don’t! Archer, Gladio, stop!” 

Gladio didn’t hesitate, sword dissapaiting before the words were even fully heard. “Galahad, stop.” 

Galahad’s armsd dropped and the man in red froze midswing, head twisting around to look into the apartment; Gladio followed his gaze. Prompto was in the entryway, leaning heavily against a wall, stripped down to only a pair of loose sweatpants and looking none the worse for wear. A little frantic but otherwise fine. 

The man in red clicked his tongue, hand going to his hip. “What part of you need to rest did you not understand? Do you want to die?” 

“Gladio is my friend.” Prompto said, glaring out at them. “I called him.” 

“There are no friends in a Grail War.” Archer said but ambled back into the apartment, past a scowling Galahad, with no sign he intended to attack again. He seemed more intent on taking Prompto by the arm and physically turning him around and pushing him deeper into the apartment. “Sit down at least. Just once I’d like to be summoned by someone who listened to what I had to say.” 

Gladio cut his eyes over to Galahad. Galahad shrugged then inclined his head to the side, asking a silent question Gladio understood perfectly. He nodded then fell into step behind the Shielder to enter the apartment. 

\---

  
  


Prompto was used to going unnoticed and being left to his own devices. His parents had done a ton of that when he was growing up, so completely overlooking his presence that they forgot to show up to appointments and school functions. He’d been used to it by junior high, and learned to not bother inviting them to things, but it was something that had extended to much of life. People just...looked past him, for some reason, and when they did notice him it was usually for all the wrong reasons. 

He’d learned to appreciate being a shadow to people, finding it was better than being made fun of or pushed around because he didn’t look like the people around him, or because he was adopted, or because his parents weren’t Lucian, and later on that it was preferable to people trying to get close in order to get their hooks into Noctis. 

And it was useful for slipping away from Noctis and the king to wander the vault and, when he was sure no one was close enough to see, snagging something from one of the display cases. A bit of red fabric with a bit of silver fringe clinging to it, worn around the edges, much easier to fold up and put into a pocket than some of the weapon fragments and larger artifacts would have been. He wasn’t sure he felt drawn to it or anything but hopefully that wouldn’t matter much. 

Taking a picture of Noct’s copy of the ritual was easy too, Noct was barely paying any attention to anything that wasn’t outside his window and Gladio was in full brooding mode. Ignis would have called him on it, but Ignis was staying at the Citadel in the name of research so Prompto was in the clear. He was going to do this and the less he had to worry about someone trying to stop him the better. He understood what the king had told him, about not having the magic and how it could be fatal, but that was...he had joined Noct's guard knowing there might be a time he had to lay down his life for his friend, had accepted that as part of his duty. He wasn't going to just...not try, because it might hurt or be hard, or even kill him.

Though he would prefer that it didn't, personally. 

He’d even started to think he’d be able to manage the summoning thing without issues, it didn’t look that hard or involved, right up until he was doing it. One moment everything was fine, he was repeating the words smoothly and everything seemed to be in order, and the next he was curled up on his side, electric pain making him gag and choke as his body convulsed violently. He’d tasted bitter metal filling his mouth, and with each passing moment the pain was getting worse, searing over his every nerve. 

Managing to get his phone to call Gladio, after a quick but fraught internal war about calling Noctis instead (if he was about to die he didn’t want Noct to find him) or Ignis (if he wasn’t dying he didn’t want to sit through a lecture) too all the energy he had and once it was done he’d been sure he was going to pass out, the world dark around the edges and shrinking in on him second by second. 

Instead the pain had faded under warm calloused hands as a worried face hovered in front of him. “What a troublesome master you’re going to be. You’re lucky I picked up a thing or two about healing, and that I wasn’t too hopeless to remember it.” 

Prompto squinted up at the man, tanned with messy white hair and sharp amber eyes. Wearing a black shirt that was practically painted onto a torso so cut, he noticed when he let his eyes wander a bit, even Gladio would have been impressed, and a red shrug with long sleeves over it. 

“Um.” Prompto tried, still feeling twinges of pain running through him. “I-” 

The world shifted, dropped away under him or maybe he was being lifted; it was hard to say, everything was so jumbled. “Sleep. You need to rest to heal fully.”

Sleep seemed like a good idea. Prompto let his eyes fall shut and the world go dark and silent. 

Only to be woken by a loud crash that had him jumping up (he was in his bed? How had he gotten there) and rolling to his feet in spite of the protesting of his body and the heaviness of his limbs. A glimmer of red from the corner drew his eye but there was only the echo of a voice to be found. 

“Stay in bed. I’ll take care of this.” 


End file.
